“That war seems so strange, doesn’t it? We’ve had our issues with them before, but it never came to war.”
“That’s because we had an emperor that everyone respected. We need another.”
“You’re right about that.” It was now common knowledge that Eberhart had stepped off his throne, although the reasons were a matter of great debate and speculation. Nico had been disappointed to learn of the abdication through repeated rumors, the same as everyone else. He wished his father had trusted him with the news, but had long since learned that many matters of state were best confined to an inner circle that did not include second sons. “You really should think twice about being an adviser, Renard.”
The retainer chuckled again, his usual harsh croaking. They walked on in silence then, until Nico saw the roof of the barracks come into view.
“Would they follow me, Renard?”
Another chuckle. “Of course they would. They’re quite fond of you.”
Well, Nicolas? Pretend you are a real prince and make a decision. What will it be? These Asturians have treated us with suspicion ever since our arrival. We owe them nothing.
A distant horn sounded.
Leti had watched her father’s army march out of the city the eve before. The image had replayed in her mind a hundred times since.
She could claim no more than a rudimentary understanding of the military, but the deployment seemed simple enough. The brave defenders of her home walked out in columns narrow enough to pass through the open gates, then spread out into wider lines once they were on the open plain. Whether in columns or lines, the men and women of each regiment moved together, step in step. She knew that they would fight together in those groups, as well. This tactic—moving and fighting as units rather than individuals—had been the focus of those long hours of drill she had watched so much of in recent days.
As the troops passed through the gates, their numbers seemed countless, a flood of soldiers that went on and on. Never before had she witnessed such a spectacle. And yet she had heard rumors that Duke Iago’s forces greatly exceeded her father’s. A terrible thought, and one she put back out of her mind each time it popped in.
She had watched as the city’s regiments fanned out side-by-side about a half-mile away, vermilion standards carried high for all to see. The units were still moving as the sun had set, so she did not get to see their final disposition. But Captain Gornada had told her how they would be arrayed, with the most professional troops in the center, the recent levies to either side, and a sprinkling of cavalry on the far left and right. Confusingly, the regiments were unevenly sized. The levies were by far the largest portion of the army, numbering nearly a thousand, each carrying a spear and little else. The professionals were next with a few hundred. Most were armed with swords, along with a sprinkling of crossbows. The cavalry wings were by far the smallest portion—she guessed less than a hundred total, divided between the two flanks.
In direct contrast to how they had looked marching out of the city, the army appeared so much smaller and less impressive from a distance. It was easy to imagine its being overwhelmed, so she did her best to keep imagination at bay.
At first, Leti had not planned on watching the battle at all. But she had been able to think of nothing else all night, and had known long before sunrise that it would be impossible not to watch. She had set out in time to reach a watchtower along the perimeter by first light, but had been sidetracked by the encounter with the Akenberg prince. She was glad for the opportunity to apologize to him for her harsh words yesterday, but now found herself hurrying, knowing the battle had started without her. Leti had convinced herself that merely by watching, a princess could will her father’s standard to remain upright. Now she simply hoped it would not fall before her arrival.
How difficult to believe that life hung in the balance, that in mere hours every aspect of her very existence might be utterly ruined. And there was nothing tangible she could do to affect events. She was a fragile leaf floating atop a raging river, and could only drift where the whimsical current carried her.
Yet she was less concerned for herself than for the others who filled her life—her father, who had devoted his soul to the people of Asturia, only to see them rise against him in rejection of his life’s duty; and her brother, the stuttering adolescent who was equally terrified of inheriting the throne and girls his own age. Her love and respect for the two of them were boundless. Neither deserved to be in this impossibly tenuous position, and whatever possible punishments lay ahead for her paled in comparison to what they would suffer.
Leti had not anticipated the enormity of the crowds. Every man, woman, and child of Cormona apparently had the same idea as she, making the streets hopelessly congested. She pushed through as quickly as she could, looking for any remaining watchmen who might help. But of course they had all been levied into the army, leaving no one to maintain control of the mindless mob.
She heard the commotion building up behind her before she could see what it was. People began pushing harder than usual, and she was nearly knocked to the ground. The surprisingly strong hands of an elderly man reached out and saved her, allowing Leti to position herself on a piece of debris to get a view of the disturbance.
Horsemen were approaching. No wonder the people were getting out of the way. Her first thought was that these were watchmen after all, coming to restore order to the streets. Then she saw the two men in front—one young and slender, the other old and mustached—and felt the breath leave her body. The crowd watched as they rode by, all thirty-four of them, atop powerful destriers of all colors and adorned in polished armor and bright blue-and-white tabards proudly depicting the mountain of Akenberg.
She noted the prince’s gray-speckled steed, its magnificent proportions and the proud posture of both horse and rider. In fact, every one of the Akenbergers rode calmly and stiffly, as if on parade rather than pressing through a horde of disorderly spectators.
Leti watched them go by, her mind torn with doubts and emotions. Not daring to get her hopes up, she tried telling herself that the group might be leaving Asturia—after all, their homeland had just started a war of its own. But she knew in her heart they were riding out to aid her father, even though he had distrusted them ever since their arrival.
Most of the others on the street were cheering the horsemen, but Leti used the opportunity to press forward again. She missed seeing them pass through the gates, but she reached the wall and looked out in time to see them spread out and pick up speed. From a trot to a canter, then a gallop. Straight toward the center of the fighting.
She located Lord Jacinto, her father’s aged white-bearded retainer, at the nearest watchtower.
“Little Letitia, did you come through that mob by yourself?” he admonished. “Your father would not like to hear that.”
“Then don’t tell him, Jacinto,” she retorted, having no time or inclination for idle conversation. Her mind was wholly focused on the confusing scene playing out before her.
All her concentration was required to glean any useful information from the limited clues this distant vantage point offered. Jacinto informed her that Iago had already launched two probing attacks, intended to find weaknesses in the king’s forces. What the duke had learned from those was unclear, but evidently the fighting had begun in earnest all along the line. If her father had held back any units as reinforcements, they had clearly already been thrown in.
The other observers in the tower worried about some unseen force coming out of nowhere to make a flanking maneuver to the side of or behind Anton’s army. The concerns stemmed more from fear and wild imagination than reality, yet Leti could not completely discount the possibility. As far as she could make out, the two sides were relatively deadlocked, as pieces of Iago’s army pressed forward then backed up to regroup, again and again. If the duke possessed these hypothetical extra forces everyone worried about, surely he would have used them by now. The bigger question was whether he needed them.
> Taking a moment to look at the sun, Leti was surprised to see it nearing its zenith. How could it be midday already, when she was just now getting a handle on the situation? She discovered that her sense of time was hopelessly warped. The seconds crept by, particularly when she saw the dust and clutter of combat get nearer her father’s standard. And yet on another level, time was racing. She found herself in no hurry for there to be an outcome to this battle, despite the horrible bloodshed occurring on the front lines. She was simply not ready for fate to decide her future.
Given the extreme difficulty of understanding the ebb and flow just by watching, her group learned far more of value as the wounded straggled back. Most were too preoccupied—with screaming, crying, praying, or writhing—to bother. But a few soldiers did not appear to be too badly off to trouble for information. To Leti’s inexpert eye, some seemed hardly wounded at all, their demeanor at odds with their physical condition. Many of these were willing to talk, even if only to glorify their own role in the fighting, their first-hand accounts of dubious merit. The worst cases of wounded were carried, and their bearers contributed to the wealth of confused and contradictory information. Leti heard alternately that her father’s forces were winning, losing, retreating, and advancing.
Then the worst news of all came back. The first time she heard, “The king is down! The king has fallen!” she waited calmly for the next report to nullify the rumor as more hysteria. Sadly, each subsequent account only confirmed the dire news.
Not knowing whether her father was dead or merely wounded, she began to lose hope. She stopped watching the action’s confounding turmoil and started staring at the faces of the dirty, weary, often bloody stragglers. Her heart went out to them, for as awful as she felt right now, she could not even begin to imagine what they had just gone through. Seized by despair, she sat with her back to the stone wall, listening to the chatter and praying for Todos, the God of Death, to take the enemy and spare her kin. When she heard more shouts of defeat, she closed her eyes and tried hard not to cry, telling herself over and over to behave like a noblewoman ought.
At last self-admonition pushed her back into composure. And she heard laughing, a sound so discordant it was difficult to take seriously. She focused on the laughter with urgent fascination.
“Lord Bayona, what news?” she heard Jacinto call.
“Victory!” came the booming reply, and she squeezed her fingers painfully hard into her palms.
Thankfully, Jacinto pressed the other noble. “Lord, please join us up here. Tell us what you can. Have we truly won?”
She heard more cheering, even before Bayona could be heard again, and quickly lost track of who was who. Victory? … Close… A near thing. Aye, victory! Hurrah! Leti felt the rope around her heart begin to loosen, not realizing she was holding her breath until she stopped.
…stolen from the maw of defeat… We are saved!
King Anton is wounded, though… No, he is dead… No, wounded…
“It was Prince Nicolas!” someone shouted.
Leti stood up.
“Aye, the prince has delivered us!” another shouted agreement.
She glanced at Lord Jacinto and was surprised to see him scowling at this latest group of soldiers. But they paid him no mind. “Who would have believed an Akenberger would save the day?” one laughed.
Then she saw Lord Bayona, limping slightly, being escorted onto the platform of the watchtower with her and Jacinto. She immediately went to him. “Lord Bayona, please tell me of my father.”
The old face looked at her for a second, trying to place her. She realized that most of her father’s courtiers were accustomed to seeing her in finery, whereas today she had opted for plain, comfortable clothing and tied back her long black tresses. Then recognition dawned in his eyes. “Your pardons, Princess. The fighting has dulled my senses.”
She waited impatiently. “It’s fine. Tell me of my father.”
“Wounded. I’m not certain how badly. But bad enough to put the scare into the troops.”
Leti felt the rope tighten around her heart once again. “And what is this I hear of Prince Nico…las?” she asked, nearly using his familiar name in her agitation.
Bayona glanced at Jacinto. “Yes. I saw it myself, and I still don’t believe it.” He shook his head and took in a deep breath. “Iago hit us hard, over and over. Your father went down, and the panic began spreading through the ranks. The duke sensed his chance and pushed forward, and the Akenbergers hit him from the flank right at that moment. The timing could not have been better if it’d been planned.”
“Was the duke killed? Or taken captive?”
“I’m not certain, Princess. Not right away, I know that. The Feanans regrouped even after that first attack, and the melee continued for some time. I was hit…” His hand clutched his side at the reminder, “…and my men compelled me to retire, but I know the Akenberg company stayed with your father, where the fighting was heaviest. I suspect they paid a price for their actions—”
“Haven’t we all?” Jacinto interjected.
Bayona nodded. “We should wait to hear more reports. I’m starting to conjecture now. Your pardons, Princess.”
“Yes, Lord, please see to your wound.”
At least now she could look back out on the battlefield with a sense of optimism. The fighting had ended, and a long stream of combatants was making their way back toward the city. This would include the captured enemy, she knew, and was curious how many of them had managed to flee. From this vantage point, it did not appear that any of her father’s force had been dispatched in pursuit. But was it due to a lack of availability, command, or need? She particularly wondered whether the duke had escaped, and sincerely hoped not. She did not want there to be another battle. Ever.
Unlike the earlier stragglers, the returning soldiers now retained some vestige of order. They were not moving in cohesive regiments any longer, only in companies and squads. She looked hard for any sign of her father’s Royal Guard, but had lost track of the standard and knew of no other means to distinguish between units.
The troops approaching the walls now were part of the victorious few who had remained to the battle’s end. She pressed closer to the low wall that outlined the platform, even leaning over to get a better look at them.
Expecting to see cheerful, smiling faces, Leti was surprised to see anything but. These men and women were just as dirty and tired as the wounded had been. In some cases, worse. Or so it appeared from up top. She needed to get closer.
She ran down the tower steps and into the midst of the shuffling parade, discovering that her impressions had not been mistaken. These soldiers were not at all the happy victors she expected. Many clearly had wounds of their own; they had simply continued fighting despite them. All of them looked exhausted, and considering that it was now past midday and the fighting had started at dawn, she understood why. Leti felt exhausted herself, and all she had done was watch.
One thing she had not realized from above was that much of the dirt she thought she saw on them was actually dried blood. Either it resisted wiping, or they did not realize it was there, or simply did not care. She moved a few steps back, out of their way, disappointed in herself for the revulsion she felt.
“The prince!” someone called. “Two cheers for the prince!”
There was an eruption of light cheers, if not as many as she might have hoped, and the sound brought some slight return of joy to her heart. The cavalry were coming into view. With a spasm of regret, she saw that fewer horses were coming back than had gone out. Fewer still had riders. Most of the troopers were walking beside their mounts; those who rode did so because of wounds that made walking difficult.
The sight of some of her father’s guard flanking the Akenbergers brought a return of optimism. This show of appreciation confirmed that the reports had some truth to them.
Leti strained her neck, trying to see the prince himself. Even at thirty paces, the troopers all looked the same—
slow and weary, their polished armor tarnished by blood and grime. She settled instead for looking at the horses.
There was the one with gray speckles, not in the forefront but near the center. It had no rider.
As they got closer, she saw clearly that some of the horses carried bodies. Standing on her toes, Leti saw that the prince’s was one of them.
Oh, no. Not Nico, too. But was he dead, or only wounded?
Then she recognized the prince, alive and well. Helmet off, walking beside his horse, shoulder to shoulder with the other silent survivors and an increasing number of attendants flocking out to assist where they could.
A press of onlookers pushed past, and she soon lost sight of Nico. Where had all these damnable people come from? She pressed forward as well, wanting to be a part of this momentous occasion, compelled by the sudden urge to thank the prince personally rather than simply joining the chorus of cheers that were steadily getting louder. Leti began to understand the curious confusion of the crowds during so many regal functions.
Yet she was getting nowhere, and suddenly worried that the column would pass her by. This close, yet blocked out by a mob. Then one man pushed away his neighbor, creating a sliver of an opening for her to duck through. She found herself face-to-face with a limping soldier whispering into the ear of the bloody horse he led, more concerned about his steed’s wounds than his own.
Leti stared at the procession until locating the prince, not far away. She moved toward him, a silly smile on her face, thinking of the right words to praise his bravery, curious how he would react at the sight of her. How things had changed since just that morn.
But she stopped as soon as she saw his face. Instead of a smile, there was only the look of unmasked anguish and the flushed wetness of tears.
Leti looked away from him to the body strapped onto the destrier, head lying softly on the mane, lifeless face to a cloudless sky. The dark beard and mustache were caked with dirt, but surprisingly little blood.
Empire Asunder BoxSet Page 13
